


All The Ropes That Hold You Up

by pipdepop



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Gen, How Do I Tag, Soft cowboys, someone give Arthur a hug 2k19
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-13
Updated: 2019-07-13
Packaged: 2020-06-27 11:17:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,664
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19789771
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pipdepop/pseuds/pipdepop
Summary: After Arthur has an odd encounter at the Rhodes gunsmith, he and John have a heart-to-heart. John does his best.





	All The Ropes That Hold You Up

**Author's Note:**

> T-rating is for language and mentioned character death.There is also maybe-possibly-if you tilt your head and squint-implied Charthur here, but it’s so minor I didn’t think it was worth tagging.
> 
> Title comes from 'Battling Life' by The Dunwells. Takes place in Chapter 3.

They are, John muses vaguely, really, quite, very drunk.

“What about you, Arthur?” Charles asks, turning to where Arthur is slouched against the log.

“Aw, I ain’t ever bother thinkin’ about that stuff. Molly was frettin’ this morning about seven years’ bad luck because she broke a mirror – I said, ‘we don’t need to worry, we probably ain’t even gonna live that long!’”

And they burst into another round of hooting laughter, because when you’re that drunk your impending doom is pretty goddamn funny. But Charles looks pensive, and tries again.

“C’mon. You must have thought about it sometime. No bounty, no strings, ten thousand dollars in your pocket. What would you do?”

Arthur takes another swig from his bottle, and stays silent, and John thinks maybe he’s just too drunk to think up an answer (and that was fine – Can’t Remember Shit-all Drunk Arthur was easy to handle, you just had to steer him to his tent at the end of the night. Let’s Dance Drunk Arthur was who you had to watch out for, because he was shortly followed by You Looked At Me Funny So Now I’m Gonna Break Your Face Drunk Arthur, and that was when things got expensive). But as they settle into a peaceful silence, gazing at the campfire, a quiet voice pipes up.

“Horses. Out west. Near the mountains.”

“Oh?” Charles asks as John blinks at Arthur. But his brother doesn’t look away from the flames.

“Yeah. I figure, I’m okay with ‘em. I could get a ranch somewhere, breed ‘em, train ‘em. And a dog. I’d like a dog.”

“Aw don’t sell yerself short there English, you ain’t just _‘okay’_ wif ‘orses! That big bastard o’ yours was a goddamn menace when you bought him, but now he’s a lamb! I’d buy a horse off ya any day, I would - I’d call him Merlin!”

But as Sean and Javier fall into an argument about good horse names ( _“who the hell names his horse after his mother anyway?!”_ ), Charles continues to watch Arthur.

“That all?” he asks, and John thinks he sounds weirdly... gentle?

Another long pause. And then, in an even quieter voice,

“And... and a, a family. I’d like a family.”

And even the other two pause in their bickering at the sheer raw _vulnerability_ in Arthur’s voice. And John squints and gets a proper look at Arthur’s face and all sorts of alarm bells start ringing, because oh, we are way way past Let’s Dance Drunk Arthur and out the other side to I’m Too Scared To Leave Him On His Own Tonight In Case He Does Something Real Stupid Drunk Arthur. Who is a Drunk Arthur John hasn’t seen for years, and had hoped to never see again. Or maybe, John muses fuzzily, Arthur isn’t actually that drunk- well, okay, he’s drunk, but he also looks goddamn _tired_. And Tired, Drunk And Sad Arthur still made for a bad combination.

“Okay...” John hauls himself to his feet, sways, rights himself. Shuffles over to Arthur, attempts to haul him to _his_ feet, fails. But suddenly Charles is there too and they hoist him up. And Arthur actually goes pale, and John’s worried he’s going to be sick for a moment, but then sees that Arthur’s blinking hard, and realizes he must have stood up too fast. And John hopes he isn’t too drunk to remember a new resolution to make sure Arthur’s sleeping okay (or rather, get Hosea or Tilly or Mary-Beth to make sure Arthur’s sleeping okay), because close up he really does look exhausted, and if simply standing up is making him dizzy then...

“Oi, I don’t need yer help, I ain’t that drunk...”

“Yeah, well, I am, so c’mon.” 

Javier and Sean go back to arguing about horse names, and they steer Arthur past the cook wagon. Or rather, Charles steers Arthur, and by extension John. Perhaps he hadn’t been drinking as much as John first thought either. Or perhaps he’s just so damn huge that it doesn’t affect him as much. Bastard. John is grateful for the help though. But he also feels oddly uncomfortable, like something’s not right. Belatedly he realizes it’s Arthur’s silence. How many times - since Hosea had deigned John old enough to drink - had they staggered out of saloons or away from the campfire together, clutching at each other to gain some drunken semblance of balance? But even if Arthur was just as wasted as John, or even more so, he never failed to give his ‘idiot kid brother’ shit for not being able to hold his liquor. Now he’s concerned about the lack of ribbing he’s getting from Arthur about his drunk ass. 

“All right, first stop alighting here.” Charles proclaims as they stumble to a halt outside John’s tent. John reaches for the flap with one hand, but doesn’t let go of Arthur.

“Uh, you wanna come in for sec Arthur? Need to talk to you about... somethin’. Don’t worry Charles, I’ll get him to his tent.”

Charles eyes them both dubiously.

“You sure? I don’t wanna get the blame from Dutch if you only make it half-way and he finds you both passed out in front of his tent in the morning.”

Charles says it like it’s a joke, so John doesn’t mention that that exact scenario has happened. More than once. 

“Yeah yeah, it’ll be fine.”

So Charles gives John a slap on the back, and squeezes Arthur’s shoulder, before heading back to the campfire. John somehow manages to get them both inside the tent, and it takes him longer than it probably should have to fumble with a couple of the toggles to keep the flaps closed and give them some semblance of privacy. When he turns around again, Arthur has taken the liberty of sitting on the edge of John’s cot, too drunk or too tired, or both, to remain standing. John shuffles over and plops down next to him. Neither say anything for a while, Arthur staring vacantly at his hands in his lap, John looking at the ground while he tries to figure out what to say. Noting the softness under his boots, he tries.

“I never did say thanks, y’know. For this.” He swipes a foot along the edge of the boarskin rug. Arthur hums in acknowledgement, but says nothing, and John frowns. He was at least expecting a jab about not getting something like a sheepskin or cougar pelt because he’d let it get dirty. He wracks his brain, but he’s never been good with words or with what Hosea calls ‘tact’, even when he’s stone cold sober. John likes to confront things head on. So that’s what he does now.

“You ain’t okay.”

A pause. Arthur looks up at him at least, a confused look on his face.

“What?”

“I think when people have conversations like this, they usually start of with somethin’ like ‘are you okay?’ But you ain’t. I know you ain’t.”

“And what’s that supposed to mean Marston?”

“You don’t look like you’re sleepin’ right. And you seem all... sad. Like you used to get sometimes. When...” and he trails off, because he, Dutch, Hosea and Grimshaw had all agreed a long time ago that that was a can of worms they would never open again, unless Arthur was the one with the tin opener. Arthur just looks at him impassively, and really, that’s what’s most worrying. Arthur Morgan, because he’s Arthur fucking Morgan, can be bleeding out from bullet wounds and insist he’s fine – John knows because he’s seen him do it. So the fact he isn’t calling John all sorts of names, hissing and spitting in denial right now, is clanging those alarm bells again. When he doesn’t continue, Arthur sighs.

“Well, unless you got any more _insights_ you wanna share Marston-”

And he goes to stand up from the cot, wobbles dangerously until John pulls him back down.

“Sit down before you fall down, idiot.” He grouses, out of habit. But his hand smoothens from grabbing at the back of Arthur’s shirt to just resting on his back. And, though John’s pretty sure he isn’t consciously aware of it, Arthur leans into the touch. They sit in silence again, for a while. Then John tries the direct approach again.

“What happened, Arthur?”

He doesn’t get a response, and he figures that he at least tried; that if anything, at least Arthur got some quiet time, got to know that at least someone’s realized he’s having a rough time of it, for whatever reason. He hasn’t pulled away though, so John figures the least he can do is sit there with his brother for a while. But then under his hand he feels, rather than hears, Arthur heave a sigh. 

“Went to the gunsmith in Rhodes the other day.”

“Yeah?” and John can’t remember anything remarkable about the weapons store in Rhodes. He’s been in there a couple of times to stock up on ammunition, admired some of the engraving work. But he can’t think of anything that could have set off Arthur’s mood.

“Yup. Freed the fella he had locked up in his basement.”

John must still be drunker than he realizes, because he wasn’t sure he heard that right.

“ _What?!_ He had a guy locked in- What, he some kind of deviant or somethin’?”

“Naw. Though, that might’ve been better, maybe.”

“Whatchu mean?”

Another long pause. John’s still got his hand on Arthur’s back, and he feels him inhale several times like he’s about to start speaking, but then nothing happens. John’s about to give up and suggest they have a crack at getting to Arthur’s tent, when suddenly it leaves him in a rush.

“His son died.”

Oh no.

“Drowned, in the river. Man went mad with grief. Saw this other fella, reckoned he looked like his boy, kidnapped him and locked him in his basement. Kept insistin’ that he was his son, that he had to keep him down there for his own safety. Had him dressed up like a little boy and everything, even though he was a grown ass man.”

“Jesus.” John swears softly. Starts rubbing his thumb up and down Arthur’s spine.

“I let the guy go. Left the man sobbing in his basement. Didn’t even rob the register on my way out, stupid of me...”

“Arthur-” and John wants to huff in frustration, because of course Arthur would somehow find a way to fault himself in this whole nasty situation. But he swallows it back, trying to think of something more helpful to say. Wishing he had more tact.

“That’s... that’s pretty damn awful.” He says eventually, leaving room for Arthur to get whatever else it is he needs off his chest. He absently realizes that this is the longest time they’ve sat together, just the two of them since... well, since before John left. (Hosea insisted that Arthur sat by his side for hours on end up in Colter. But John doesn’t remember most of that, delirious with fever and pain as he was. And he’s pretty sure Hosea’s just trying to patch things up between them.) Arthur hums noncommittally and says nothing for a while again. And again, John’s just about to give up on being supportive, y’know, _emotionally_ , because he’s damn shit at it, when Arthur blurts out,

“He would’ve been fourteen, this year. Same age I was, when I met Dutch and Hosea.”

And John already knew this was about Isaac, really, but it still comes as a shock to hear Arthur talking about him. Shit. Had it really been ten years, since that awful, awful day? Jack, John realizes, is now about the age Isaac was when he... And that cold fury sweeps through him again, because now he’s got a frame of reference, now he knows what a four year old actually looks like, and he asks himself the same question he asked back then, but with even more anger - _who the fuck shoots a goddamn four year old?!_

And of course, that’s the other whole can of worms that he’s not gonna open, the one that makes him feel like he’s distinctly unqualified to be the one having this conversation with Arthur. Because Arthur loved, and lost, his boy and his boy’s mother – and while John didn’t think he’d loved Eliza in the same way he’d loved Mary, he clearly cared about her a lot. (When he’d asked Hosea how that all worked, when he was about fifteen – how you could be a family with someone you didn’t love, Hosea had just smiled knowingly and said that love was like a fire; sometimes, it can ignite suddenly, burn fierce and hot for a short while, but then snuff out just as quick. But the best love, like the best fires, took time, kindling, patience, to build into something strong, steadfast, something that would keep you warm throughout the night. And the metaphor went over John’s head back then, but after that horrible day, he thought he might have understood better – Arthur and Eliza might not have been in mad, passionate love with each other, but there was a chance for them to have something more than that, something better. But now they never could.) John’s boy (so he’s told), and his mother, are both alive and well and living with the gang – all Arthur ever wanted. But John doesn’t want those things, has never wanted those things, doesn’t know what to _do_ with those things, had left the damn gang to try and escape them. And oh, Arthur had given him hell for it. And John thought their relationship was irreparably damaged, that he’d driven a wedge between him and his brother for good. Long gone were the nights where they’d sit in silence, just comfortable in each other’s company. Or so he’d thought. 

“Arthur...” he murmurs, not sure what to say. But that seems to be the prompt his brother needs.

“It’s been over nine years. _Nine fucking years._ Children die all the time, and the damn world keeps spinning. Why can’t I just... I should be...!”

And John waits for him to collect his thoughts, thumb still rubbing up and down his back. Arthur huffs, letting his head fall into his hands.

“I have no idea how long that guy had been in that basement,” he says softly, muffled by his palms, “I can’t believe it’s been too long, someone woulda noticed him ‘fore now. But who knows, maybe he’s been down there for years n’ years and that gunsmith was so damn mad and in denial that he... I mean, at least _he_ had a right to be so upset about losin’ his boy, _he_ ‘least sounded like he were a good father!”

Not this again. John switches to using his whole hand to rub circles over Arthur’s shoulder blades in what he hopes is a soothing gesture. Because he – they all – could argue with Arthur about what being a good father meant until the cows came home, but they could never seem to shake the idea out of his head that what happened to Eliza and Isaac was his fault. Arthur continues, sounding downright venomous.

“So who knows how long it’s been, who knows how long it’s been sending that fella mad, but _nine fucking years,_ why ain’t I... I should just be goddamn _over_ it!”

And a distressed sound escapes John’s lips and before he knows what he’s doing he’s pulled Arthur against him, wrapping his arms around his shoulders, tucking his face against his collarbone so John can rest his chin on the top of Arthur’s head. And John’s taller than Arthur sure, but still half the damn size, so maybe it should feel awkward. But it doesn’t and maybe it’s because he’s still drunk or maybe it’s because right now he just wants, desperately wants, for Arthur to stop saying those horrible things about himself, ideally to stop thinking them about himself too. And Arthur is rigid, hands clenched into John’s shirt, and John thinks he might be about to get a fist to the face. But it doesn’t happen. Arthur stays where he is, breathing harshly into John’s shoulder. And John can feel how each of his exhales shake a little. He wonders at how tired Arthur really is, to allow himself this vulnerability in front of someone else, let alone John of all people.

They stay like that for a long time – John trying, and failing, to think of something, anything that he can say, that will help. But it wouldn’t be anything Dutch, Hosea and Miss Grimshaw haven’t already said to him, with far more _tact_ than John could ever manage. But in the end he doesn’t need to. Arthur gives one last slow, shaky sigh, before slumping against him, burying his face into John’s shoulder. And John takes that as a signal that Arthur doesn’t wanna talk no more. One of his hands comes up behind Arthur’s head, starts carding through the sandy brown strands. This part, this he knows how to do. How many times had Arthur done the same for him when he was a kid, when he’d collided into him in the middle of the night, sobbing and whimpering about a makeshift gallows, a circle of rope biting into his neck? 

Eventually, Arthur goes from just leaning against him to truly relaxing into his hold. He turns his face a little, pressing his forehead into the crook of John’s neck. John wonders about the last time someone held Arthur like this – the last time Arthur would _let_ someone hold him like this. Either way was probably: a very long time ago. Even if he probably needed it. So John doesn’t want to disturb him, or make him feel like he has to pull away before he’s ready. But he’s also kinda tired, and Arthur’s kinda heavy. So, he compromises.

“C’mon,” he murmurs, starting to lean back and to the side. Arthur startles and John realizes he must have actually fallen into a doze, worn out by grief or booze or life or all three. And of course, he starts trying to pull away, so John just holds onto him tighter.

“Nuh uh, you don’t gotta go anywhere, just put your legs up.”

“John.” Arthur sighs, and John can’t decide if he sounds annoyed, resigned, or just tired. But it doesn’t matter because Arthur has complied, and now they’re both lying on John’s cot. It’s big enough for two – Hosea had bought it as a present for him and Abigail what felt like ages ago. But Arthur’s gone stiff again, so John shifts a little, pulling Arthur against him again, tucking his head into his shoulder. Fingers once again stroking through his hair. It’s quiet for a long time, before Arthur mumbles against his shoulder.

“You sure about this? I can get to my tent...”

“Oh, shuddup and go to sleep.”

And he thinks he can feel Arthur smiling a little.

And now John’s fighting to stay awake, but he waits, squeezing his eyes shut until it hurts before opening them again every time he finds them slipping closed. He waits until Arthur goes slack against him again, waits until those breaths he can feel against his collarbone deepen and slow. Waits until he’s sure that Arthur’s asleep, that he’s not gonna lie there suffering alone with his own thoughts. Only then does he let his eyes stay shut, turning slightly to nuzzle at the crown of Arthur’s hair, fingers still tangled in the strands at the nape of his neck.  
\- - -  
That’s how Charles and Hosea find them the next morning when they go searching; Charles was pleased, when he rose, to see that the two of them weren’t sprawled on the ground somewhere between the dominos table and Dutch’s tent. But as he drinks his coffee, Hosea wanders over to him and asks if he’s seen Arthur; he hasn’t seen him all morning, he’s not in his tent, he’s not at the pier for some early-morning fishing, and Atlas is still tethered at the hitching posts. Charles frowns a little, but then glances at John’s tent, a suspicion forming. He nods for Hosea to follow, and tugs open the flaps, just enough that they can peer in. And he can’t help but smile.

“Didn’t even make it half-way.” He murmurs as Hosea chuckles.

John is sprawled on his cot, snoring like a hog with a head cold. But Arthur is curled into his side, head on John’s shoulder, quiet. Peaceful. Even in the gloom of the tent, Charles can see his colour is a lot better than it was the night before, less pale, the shadows under his eyes gone. He backs away, carefully shutting the tent flaps again, determined to let the man get as much rest as he can. Beside him, Hosea has a fond smile on his face.

“I shoulda guessed,” he chuckles, “if we couldn’t find one of them when they were younger, the first place we’d check was the other one’s tent. Used to find ‘em sprawled over each other like a pair of puppies. I’m glad,” he murmurs after a pause, “if they’ve patched things up enough to be picking up that habit again.” 

Charles smiles at the thought.

“I’ll get these bales over to the horses, try and stop anyone from making too much noise around here,” he promises, gesturing to the bales that have been stored by John’s tent. Hosea pats him on the arm.

“That’s awful kind of you, but I shouldn’t worry too much. If he can sleep through John’s snoring, he can sleep through anything!”

Charles chuckles as they part ways, then pauses – wonders how Hosea knew it was Arthur he was most concerned about waking. Then he shakes his head, hefts a hay bale, and strides off towards the horses, admiring the sights and sounds of a new morning.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! I’ve never posted my work on AO3 before (or anywhere, for that matter...), so if I need to change the tags or there are any typos/formatting issues etc, please let me know! <3  
> (Update: edited slightly as I realised I'd messed up the timeline somewhat.)


End file.
